We had made love over and over, and still…the crave lingered strongly in the air we shared. Almost percolated through it.
Brando kissed my neck, ran a finger along my collarbone, tracing the prominent shape, between my breasts, circling each one, then, slowly, softly caressing my nipples—making my womb constrict with anticipation—before he ventured even further down, tracing the lines of his blood that had smeared between us.
I breathed deeper, exhaling in slight breaths, when his hand fluttered over my womb, settling with resolute firmness between my legs.
He squeezed my thigh and I gasped from the unexpected pressure. His touch had been light, feathery, until then.
I set my bottom firmly against him, my feet running up and down his legs, and he groaned. A sound that came from a place deeper than his throat.
“Sei ancora la donna più bella che abbia mai visto, Scarlett Rose Fausti,” he whispered, the words softer than his touch.You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
His Italian accent made the sound of my name slip off his tongue in a languorous and exotic way. It had never become native to me—I always thrilled at the foreign way it sounded coming from his mouth.
I shivered, lifting my shoulders to ward off the contrast between the chill and his heat. His mouth moved up and down my back, his lips warm against my skin. He started to hum, the vibration making me smile.
“My humming that bad, Ballerina Girl?” he whispered.
“Mmm,” I closed my eyes, almost in a trance. “Repeat those words in Italian.”
“Ragazza ballerina.” He laughed quietly, his warm breath scattering on my skin enough to make me shiver again.
The moment made me freeze. The nickname…it hit me like freezing cold water in a warm womb.
“It’s still yours.” He held me tighter. “You are. You always will be. My ballerina girl. Do you hear me? It was mine to give, and I gave it to you—mine.”
I nodded, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “Your humming is the opposite of bad,” I whispered, changing the subject. “Sing some of the song so I can place it.”
Bed of roses...Mitch had been singing it earlier. Which gave me a clue of how long my husband had been creeping before he made his presence known in the only way he could.
Dramatically, to say the least.
Then he switched up the verses, fading off to a hum—something much older. Maggie Beautiful had influenced him enough that he listened to and enjoyed a variety of music.
We became quiet, lost to the thoughts that seemed to flow from him into me.
“You—” I cleared my throat. “You killed him, didn’t you?”
He let the sentence linger in the air. It seemed to hover above us like a black cloud, blocking the sun. A gray area.
“Yeah,” he said easily enough. “I made a pact with God. I wouldn’t make him suffer for long if He released you from the rat’s hold.”
“Brando…” A sob caught in my throat, and instead of allowing it to be free, I held on to his hands. Hard. “He didn’t have me—”
“He did. You couldn’t see your face. Not like I could.” He breathed in easily, and it flowed out of his nose in a warm stream. “As a man, yours, I swore to love and protect you, to shield your life with my own—that doesn’t just mean physically. To forfeit my life in honor of yours—I didn’t get the chance. I understand the reasons why. Doesn’t make it any easier, but I feel you’ve been vindicated at my hand. That freed me to a certain degree too.”
I squeezed his hand even harder. No response strong enough to add to his statement. It was over. Done. There was only forward.
“That…woman I heard while I was on the phone with Matteo?”
“No,” he said, his voice firm. “Later.”
“How much later?”
“When we get home.”
A heavy breath left my mouth, and he smiled against my neck. After a minute or two, his breathing came easier, and his touch relaxed, though his hold stayed firm. He wouldn’t let me go easily. If I had to get up, he’d keep me in place until I told him why.
Matteo felt left out, he had said earlier. He wasn’t the only one. Distance makes the heart grow fonder—Brando’s grew more possessive.
